


Entr'Acte III

by Crowgirl



Series: Boston 'Verse [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-03-27
Packaged: 2018-01-17 04:09:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1373434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl





	Entr'Acte III

Castiel doesn’t know how long he’s been rubbing his fingers over the arm of the couch before he notices there’s something wrong with the fabric. He glances down, can’t see anything to explain the irregularity, and goes back to his book. 

It’s quiet in the apartment; Dean is reading in the chair opposite him; and Nellie is curled up on the windowsill watching joggers.

He makes it through another page before he thinks, no, there really _is_ something there and peers more closely. ‘Dean...’

‘Yeah?’

Castiel runs a fingertip over one of the spots and brings it to his nose. ‘You wouldn’t know anything about stains on the couch, would you?’

‘Stains on the couch?’ That gets him the book lowered and a raised-eyebrow look for a few seconds before Dean’s eyes go wide and he brings the book back up quickly. ‘Uh...no.’

Castiel runs his fingers over the little constellation of spots again, then twists around to inspect the cushion behind him. Sure enough, there’s a slight speckling there, too, just at the top of the cushion. It’s normally covered by a loosely crocheted lap blanket but the blanket’s in the wash right now. 

Just to make sure, he licks a fingertip, swipes it over the largest area of discoloration, and touches his tongue delicately to his finger. Taste, smell -- there’s no doubt about this. He gets up and steps over the coffee table so he’s right in front of Dean.

‘Dean, I believe you are lying.’

‘You _what?’_ Dean drops the book and Castiel picks it up, dropping it on the floor beside the chair, and straddles Dean’s lap, balancing his weight carefully just forward of Dean’s knees. Dean’s hands curve around his hips, helping keep him in place.

The brief burst of real anger in Dean’s expression is gone, replaced with a kind of amused calculation. ‘Really? Lying about what?’

‘Well…’ Castiel rubs his fingers together and brushes his fingers over the tip of Dean’s nose, watching the slight flare of his nostrils. ‘...I know that’s not something I do on the couch.’

Dean fights it but the grin wins. He leans back in the chair. ‘I thought I got everything, sorry.’

‘When was it?’ Castiel passes his fingers under his own nose and inhales the faint scent. ‘Not recently. I would have noticed.’

A slight flush of color comes into Dean’s face and Castiel feels his fingers tighten. If he were to edge forward a little, Castiel is willing to bet he’d feel Dean getting uncomfortably hard against the zipper of his jeans.

‘I...it was...’ Dean blows out a breath and rubs his hand over his face. ‘Okay, you remember that night at the club? When you came to get me? It was raining?’

‘Yes, and you put me to bed.’ Castiel blinks. _‘That_ night?’

Dean shrugs a little uncomfortably. ‘It...it was a rough night.’

Castiel thinks back. Through the fog of the subsequent flu, he can’t actually remember too much except Zach being -- well, himself, then marching out of the club with Dean close behind him, and then...honestly, mostly aching bones. He does remember Dean sliding his soaked coat off, Dean guiding him back to his bedroom, Dean kneeling down to--- 

‘Oh.’ He smiles down at Dean and slips a little further forward, giving himself a comfortable amount of pressure from his own jeans. ‘I did not think you had seen anything.’ 

‘Seen---anything what?’ Dean’s eyebrows knit together, but his fingers are sliding slowly up under Castiel’s sweatshirt, a warm slide over cool skin.

‘When you...’ Castiel gestures and it looks like anything from an airplane landing signal to some arcane form of sign language. 

He can feel himself flushing which is ridiculous: he is straddling his boyfriend’s _lap,_ for God’s sake, and trying to decide if he can get him off in the chair or whether they’ll have to move to the bedroom. Blushing over a three-months-old memory is just foolishness.

‘When I--oh! Oh...’ Dean grins at him and his hands are suddenly tight around Castiel’s hips, fingertips sliding down into his boxers, thumbs teasing at the crease of his hips, just on the narrow line between sexy and ticklish, and making him gasp. ‘No, I didn’t see anything...’ One of his hands slides around and presses over Castiel’s lower abdomen, fingers just teasing into the coarse, curly nest of hair. ‘You think I’d’ve left you there alone if I had?’

‘I was sick,’ Castiel counters, giving up the idea of teasing and pressing his hand directly over the bulge between Dean’s legs. Dean groans, pushing up as much as he can against Castiel’s hand. ‘I could barely keep my eyes open.’

‘I don’t know -- I think I could’ve talked you into something -- and your dick, man---’ Dean shakes his head. ‘Worth it.’

Castiel doesn’t know whether to laugh or snort. Teasing is fine but Dean almost looks as though he _means_ that. 

Before he can make up his mind, though, Dean has taken the initiative, sliding forward under him and off the chair onto the floor. He manages to do it in such a way that Castiel’s head doesn’t crack against the floor. Instead he ends up sprawled, a little ungracefully, at the end of the coffee table with Dean leaning over him. 

‘So...what, you don’t think you’re hot?’ Dean’s mouth is quirking up a tiny bit at the corners.

Castiel can’t help himself; he rolls his eyes and sighs. ‘Dean, this was not the idea.’

‘Oh, there was an idea?’

‘Yes, there was an idea. Did you think--’

‘That you started something without planning it for at least five minutes beforehand?’ Dean shakes his head. ‘I don’t think you ever learned the meaning of spontaneous, did you?’

Now Castiel is starting to feel a little irritated. ‘What is the point of--’

‘See...’ Dean leans forward and kisses him, just a soft press of lips that stops his sentence midway. ‘See, spontaneity kinda works like this...’ Before Cas can say anything else, Dean has a hand down the front of his jeans and his knuckles are pressing against the tip of Cas’ dick, hot and wet against his boxers.

‘Jesus--’ Cas gasps and arches up, pressing himself between Dean’s thighs and trying like hell to make both of their clothes vanish through sheer willpower.

Dean grins down at him and _squeezes,_ just a little, between thumb and forefinger.

Before he can think what to do next, Cas is scrabbling at Dean’s shirt, yanking it off over his head and pulling him down by the elbows. Dean is laughing at him until Cas finds his mouth and swallows the sound. He bites gently at Dean’s lower lip, teasing it between his teeth until he feels the flesh swell, then licks at it. He can feel Dean’s hands on the buttons of his own shirt and tries to help him, their hands knocking against each other until he can feel Dean laughing again. 

The buttons part eventually and Dean’s hands are hot over his ribs, smooth and teasing over his breastbone, pushing the fronts of his shirt apart until they’re skin to skin and neither of them is laughing any more. 

‘Fuck... _fuck...’_ Dean breaks away to gasp in breath, his cheeks flushed and hot, his eyes bright as he looks down at Castiel. ‘You can’t...you _can’t_ not know how hot you are.’

Castiel doesn’t resist the urge to roll his eyes this time. ‘Again?’

‘What, you think anyone could get me like this?’ Dean grabs his hand and, sitting back on his heels, presses Castiel’s palm against his crotch, molding Castiel’s fingers over the solid bulge behind the zipper.

Castiel licks his lips and scoots himself back a few inches so he’s nearly sitting. ‘Well…’ He pulls his hand free and flips open the button on Dean’s fly, teasing his thumb over the length of the zipper until Dean’s breathing gets uneven again. ‘I am flattered that you want to give me credit, of course--’

Dean takes a breath and Castiel can tell by the tilt of his head that he’s planning to keep arguing and that really wasn’t part of the plan. Forestalling him is pretty easy, though: all he has to do is roll forward onto his knees, drag Dean’s zipper down, and press his mouth over the thin layer of cotton that is the only thing separating him from Dean’s cock. 

‘Jesus _fuck--!’_ Dean jerks up against Castiel’s mouth, arching himself backwards in an attempt to get more leverage.

Castiel smiles and _licks._ The taste of Dean mingles with the taste of cotton and, really, he’d rather only have the one. He urges Dean upwards with his hands under his hips, just far enough to let him pull down jeans and boxers together. Dean’s cock is a tense curve against his lower belly, dark against the light sandy curls between his thighs. Castiel leans forward, almost curling himself up in Dean’s lap, and sucks the tip, the swollen, hot head, into his mouth, teasing his tongue around the curve and dip of it.

Dean chokes out something -- it might be meant to be words but Castiel really doesn’t care to stop long enough to find out. He can feel Dean’s thighs tensing under his hands, taste the burst of bitterness over his tongue -- and feel Dean wriggling underneath him, shifting one hip forward and stretching out along his shoulder, over Castiel’s back. 

He’d pull back and ask what the hell Dean thought he was doing if he didn’t need to concentrate on letting Dean slip, centimeter by centimeter, deeper into his mouth until his nose is buried in rough curls. Castiel closes his eyes, wraps his fingers around Dean’s hips, and drinks in sound, smell, _taste._

Which means that when Dean’s hand is suddenly against his own skin, slipping down to tease at his balls, Castiel nearly convulses. The shock of sensation is so immediate he has the momentary impression that his ears are ringing and the top of his head has come off. After a second or two, that quiets and he can feel Dean’s hand, his firm, warm palm stroking down between his legs and Castiel moans, slipping back along Dean’s length far enough that he can drag in a deep breath. 

He can’t -- he _can’t_ \-- keep Dean in his mouth if the other man is going to play dirty like this. 

Dean’s free hand is wandering over his back, smoothing over his ribs and the curve of one hip and down his half-clad thigh. The other hand is shoving jeans and shorts out of the way, making a sort of accordion Cas can feel between his thighs. It would be annoying -- but the effect is to slide his knees apart which makes him drop forward into Dean’s waiting hand. That sends sparks up his spine, a warm jolt of pleasure straight into the pit of his stomach and he flattens his tongue against the underside of Dean’s cock and lets himself moan again.

He’s never been very good at letting himself make noise; Zach used to like to play with that, telling him to be silent one night and noisy the next and Castiel had never gotten a feeling for what sounds he actually _wanted_ to make. That’s starting to change now and he can feel Dean tremble around him when he presses a kiss against the underside of his cockhead and groans into it. 

‘Fuck...fuck, Cas, you…’ Dean’s voice is breathy and he drags in a deep breath, then seems to give up on talking in favor of curling his fingers around Castiel’s cock and trying to _pull_ an orgasm out of him.

Castiel shudders and can’t stop himself trying to push forward into Dean’s hand. He drops his head onto Dean’s thigh and, a little feverishly, desperate to stay in contact, licks his palm and wraps his hand around Dean, slicking the length of him and trying to match Dean’s rhythm.

_‘Jesus_ Godfuck---’ Dean’s scrabbling at his shoulder, yanking him up onto his knees and grabbing his chin, pulling him forward so Dean can kiss him hard, as if Castiel is the supply of air in the room. 

Castiel can feel himself starting to tremble, the warm flare of pleasure turning into a steady burn, a spin, a _push_ he can’t ignore and doesn’t want to. 

‘God, Cas, please, just...please...’ Dean clamps his free hand around Castiel’s so he’s effectively jerking both of them, fingers slick and tangled together. _‘Please--’_

_‘Dean---’_ Castiel chokes and comes, a hot splatter slicking his stomach, the rest soaking Dean’s hand, covering his fingers.

‘Jesus...oh, _Christ...’_ Dean’s voice is barely a moan now and Castiel has just enough self-control left to tighten his hand slightly; Dean cries out, a hoarse, almost painful sound, and arches up against him. He’s silent, as he almost always is apart from the initial jolt of sound, but his body jerks and trembles against Castiel’s and there’s the hot, wet pulse over his knuckles.


End file.
